The Legacy of Lochandee

by Gwen Kirkwood

  ‘My wife,’ he said softly. ‘My own at last.’ He felt Bridie smile against his lips.

  ‘Come on, we’ll get to our hotel. I’ve booked the best room they have at the King’s Arms in Dumfries. Bonnie Prince Charlie is supposed to have stayed there. Tomorrow we’ll drive up to Ayrshire and have a little cottage all to ourselves. It looks onto the sea, with a view of Ailsa Craig. A man from that area came into the garage to have his car repaired. We got talking while I was working on it and he recommended the cottage. It had belonged to his mother, and his wife has just started letting it to holidaymakers. He was very grateful to me for fixing his car to get him home so he promised to have everything laid on in the way of linen and food, logs for a fire if we need it.’

  ‘It sounds lovely,’ Bridie murmured.

  ‘I’m looking forward to being just the two of us, and I think my shy little bride will prefer some privacy too …’

  The evening was drawing to a close when Fiona remembered she had promised to take Bridie and Nick’s wedding finery across to her house. Beth had already left with a very tired Lucy.

  ‘I’ll help you carry everything,’ Conan volunteered. ‘Mum and Dad have already gone home with the Sedgemans, and Polly has gone to Beth’s.’

  ‘All right, that would save me coming back,’ Fiona accepted gratefully. Conan followed her into the house and up the stairs to the spare bedroom where she wanted to hang Bridie’s dress. Conan stumbled on the stairs behind her.

  ‘You know, Conan Maxwell, I think you are too inebriated to think of driving back to your crummy little flat,’ she giggled.

  ‘And for once, Fiona Sinclair, I believe I agree with you,’ Conan grinned. ‘I would have gone back to the Glens but they have a full house already.’

  ‘You can sleep in this spare bed if you want.’ Fiona patted the plump feather mattress with its blue satin eiderdown and matching bedspread.

  ‘I can? It looks v-very inviting, but what would it do to your reputation if anyone finds out?’

  ‘Och, my character is unblemished as far as the Lochandee folks are concerned. Anyway I’ll shoo you out at the crack of dawn. Your car is parked across at the village hall so no one will know where you are. Do you fancy a cup of cocoa before we turn in?’

  ‘Mmm … I could fancy more than that.’

  ‘Well, if you’re good, I’ll lace it with some good French cognac.’ She led the way back to the living room and switched on an electric heater. ‘Dad must have had a whole crate of brandy hidden away. There’s about six bottles still here.’

  Conan was amazed to see the generous measure which Fiona poured into each cup. He guessed she was not in the habit of measuring out spirits. She kicked off her high-heeled shoes and sank into a chair beside his, cradling the cup in her hands.

  ‘Haven’t we done well? Not a single argument all day!’ He draped his jacket around a spare chair and removed his tie, then he raised his cup a little unsteadily in a toast.

  ‘I’d drink it up, if I were you. Whoever does your washing wouldn’t thank you for chocolate stains down your lovely white shirt.’ She grinned at him.

  ‘You know, I rather like the new you, Fiona Sinclair.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid I can’t go around every day with flowers in my hair and wearing a long yellow dress. Oh gosh!’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘I quite forgot – I needed to ask Beth to undo all the tiny buttons down the back. I can’t get out of it myself!’

  ‘Och, that’s no problem. I can do it when you’re ready to go to bed.’

  ‘Mmm, maybe you’ll come in useful after all then.’ She waved a hand airily in his direction. ‘I think I’m ready now, but at the moment I don’t feel all that sleepy. It’s been such a long day.’ She uncurled herself from the big chair and took their cups to fill with water in the kitchen.

  Tidy and methodical to the last, Conan reflected, and grimaced at the thought of the cheerless and untidy flat he would return to. He would miss Nick more than he had realised.

  ‘I think I’ll take you up on your offer of a spare bed if you’re sure, Fiona.’

  ‘Even when I’m a b-bit in-inebriated I don’t say things I d-don’t mean. At l-least I d-don’t think I d-do.’ She blinked at him. ‘Th-that brandy m-must have been stronger th-than I thought. Let’s get upstairs be-before my legs give w-way.’ She headed upstairs, stumbling slightly as she hauled herself up by the banister to her bedroom. Conan followed and she turned her back towards him.

  ‘Th-there’s an awful lot of wee buttons …’

  ‘I’ll soon manage them, if you’ll stand still …’

  The long row of buttons reached almost down the bottom of her slender back. The warmth of her skin and the fragrance rising from her hair made his fingers tremble, but Fiona waited patiently in a hazy glow. It didn’t seem strange when Conan released the last button and slipped the dress slowly from her shoulders until it fell in a cascade of golden yellow around her feet. She didn’t resist when he bent his head and kissed the knobbly little bone at the back of her neck. Rather, she leaned back against him, lifting her head obligingly when his lips trailed a path of fire, nibbling softly at her ear and forward to the hollow of her throat. She turned meekly in the circle of his arms and lifted her mouth to meet his, vaguely aware that the yearning for him had been there throughout the long, lovely day they had spent together. Conan was not a man of steel and he had drunk more than usual. Fiona was one of the most attractive, and most challenging, women he had ever met. Her lips were soft and yielding but their first real kiss was like adding a match to a box of fire crackers.

  Fiona offered no resistance when he pushed the narrow straps from her shoulders and allowed his mouth to trace the path of the rustling silk as it slipped slowly to her waist. She felt deliciously free and unfettered as she raised her arms and clasped them round his neck. She felt his heartbeat thundering against her own, but nothing seemed to matter. Conan was strong and young and as fit as a man could be. He raised his head and tried to look into her face but her cheek was resting against his chest and she made no protest when his trembling fingers released the long lacy suspenders and gently eased the remaining bits of underwear to the floor.

  He lifted her as effortlessly as he would a child. She looked up at him dreamily. His blue-green eyes held her clear grey ones as he laid her on the bed. She curled up, as naked as the day she was born, and closed her eyes. She had fallen sound asleep! For a moment, Conan stared in disbelief. He shook his head. Disappointment washed over him. Then, with a wry grimace, he drew the bedclothes over her. It was the first time a woman had simply ignored his advances, even less fallen asleep on him. He had always been the one who decided how far he would go. Of course, his rejection had to come from Fiona Sinclair – who else? She had always been a challenge to him, but never this way. Beneath the bedclothes her long, slender limbs made him quiver with desire. Damn Fiona! Damn all women! Even so, he bent and picked up her gown and draped it over a chair, then, as an afterthought he lifted her underwear and placed the flimsy items on top. Would she remember? What would she think when she awakened and found herself undressed? His anger evaporated and he grinned drunkenly.

  When Conan woke he could barely see his wristwatch, but he gasped when he realised it was already five o’clock. He felt groggy and deflated and he was tempted to turn over and go back to sleep. Most of the villagers had no reason to rise so early on the Sabbath, but there were always odd ones who were up and about. He pulled on his clothes and, on impulse, he peeped into Fiona’s room. Her even breathing told him she was still sound asleep. He sighed and crept downstairs, and out of the front door. He did not see Beth as he walked swiftly across the quiet village street to his car. She was dressed for the milking and about to mount her bicycle. Her eyes and mouth rounded in surprise at the sight of Conan. She watched him start up his car and drive away, her mind full of speculation.

  Chapter Twelve

  FIONA FELT LIKE HER head was filled with sawdust, or was it br
icks, she wondered, as she moved it on the pillow. Her eyes fell on her clothes draped over a nearby chair and she realised she was completely naked beneath the bedclothes, yet she had no recollection of getting undressed. She frowned as hazy memories began to stir – Conan opening the buttons down the back of her dress – Conan… She struggled to remember. What had she said? More importantly, what had she done …? She clasped her hands to her burning cheeks in horror, but that did not prevent the wanton sensations haunting her subconscious. Sensations she had never experienced before, nor ever expected to feel. How could she ever face Conan Maxwell again?

  It was early afternoon when Beth saw Fiona wandering aimlessly in her front garden.

  ‘Hi, Fiona, how are you feeling after all the excitement?’

  Was Beth regarding her more shrewdly than usual? Or was that just her imagination? She shook her head, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

  ‘Terrible! I’m not used to alcohol and I’m sure Nick filled up my glass at least twice for the toasts.’

  ‘Aah, is that the way of it?’ Beth chuckled. ‘Well, Lucy is feeling flat and tired, and it’s making her very cross. Polly Sedgeman left just after lunch and she’s missing the company and excitement. I don’t suppose you feel like taking her for a good long walk around the loch side? The fresh air and exercise would do you both good, by the looks of it.’

  ‘Yes, well, why not, if Lucy wants to go?’

  ‘When you return, can she stay with you until I get back from the milking, or is that asking too much? I’d take her with me but the rest of the Sedgemans are staying at the farm and there’s plenty without Lucy.’

  Even to herself, Beth didn’t want to admit she preferred to keep her daughter away from Conan’s Aunt Meg after her shrewd observations at the wedding. Then this morning Polly Sedgeman had been telling Lucy about her work as a teacher and answering her eager questions. She had smiled at her enthusiasm, then remarked how much Lucy reminded her of Conan when he was a boy. Strangers often saw things more clearly than those closest, Beth decided.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Beth,’ Fiona said gently, mistaking the cause of the older woman’s anxiety. ‘Lucy is never any bother. She’s such a bright wee girl and I enjoy her company. We’ll have tea together when we’ve been for a walk.’ In fact, she would welcome Lucy’s company to distract her from her own thoughts, but she couldn’t tell Beth that. Most of the folk in the village would be horrified if they knew Conan had stayed the night with her, albeit in separate rooms. She was not even certain if he had spent the whole night in a separate room. She suddenly felt hot all over.

  It was the middle of the following week when Jordon Niven came into Fiona’s office waving a letter and smiling broadly.

  ‘Your letter and my signature have brought some results from the London auctioneers,’ he grinned. Fiona flushed warily. He had told her, rather irritably, to write the letter herself, since she had insisted something ought to be done about Mrs Maxwell’s missing vase. She suspected he thought it was a waste of time, because they had no proof that the vase in the paper, or any other vase, had ever belonged to Rachel Maxwell. When he’d read her letter, he had raised his eyebrows and added his illegible signature without a quibble.

  ‘You should have been a lawyer instead of an accountant. Succinct but diplomatic,’ he had declared. ‘You’ve just stopped short of accusation, but there are enough facts presented to make them look into things, I’d say.’

  She took the auctioneer’s letter from him and read it twice.

  ‘No wonder we never heard! In a way I’m so glad – not that Mr Murray is dead, I mean, but that he didn’t let us down. Poor man. I really liked him and in my heart I couldn’t believe he was a rogue dealer. Mrs Maxwell felt disillusioned too, so I’m sure she’ll be glad to know it’s not his fault she hasn’t had any replies to her letters.’

  ‘It’s a pity she didn’t keep a copy of her letters. The dates might have helped.’

  ‘I could always ask her if she did. She may have written them roughly first and then copied them off.’

  ‘Yes, you do that then. Before you do so though, you might make a few enquiries about Mr Murray’s family. Conan Maxwell and Mr Jones must have known his son quite well. They may have visited his family too. It’s difficult to know whether Mr Murray’s sister-in-law … what’s her name?’

  ‘Miss Pierce?’

  ‘Yes, whether she is a cheat and a liar, or whether she genuinely believed Mr Murray owned the vase, but it does sound as though it could be the one Mrs Maxwell entrusted to him, and that it is the item which is up for sale. The problem will be proving that Mr Murray didn’t pay for it, of course.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so … There was nothing written down as far as I know … Mr Murray just mentioned it as part of the conversation. I was there. Apparently, the next morning, Mrs Maxwell asked him to take it away but she didn’t tell the family because she wanted it to be a surprise if the vase did prove valuable. As you know she planned to pay for the house at Nether Rullion herself. She did tell me she had packed the vase in a wooden box. She reckoned if it was strong enough to transport bottles of animal medicine all the way from Lancashire, it should keep her vase secure and protected too. She smiled when she told me because the box was stamped in black with the name of the veterinary manufacturers – Marginsons, I think, or was it Bells … Anyway I wonder whether the auctioneers would keep the packaging?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you want to phone London and see what you can find out? You’re getting me quite interested in this little case, Fiona.’

  ‘It’s not a “little” case to the Maxwells. It could make such a huge difference to them, if it is worth as much as Mr Murray predicted. Poor man – imagine breaking his hip and then dying of pneumonia.’

  ‘He was very unfortunate. Doesn’t he have a wife?’

  ‘I understood his wife is frail and often indisposed, though I got the impression Mr Murray felt his sister-in-law made her more of an invalid than she really was. They lost both of their sons during the war and he said his wife has never really got over it. Miss Pierce is her half-sister. She moved in with them, supposedly to care and comfort her, but I had a feeling there was not much love lost between her and Mr Murray. Of course I was only in his company for a day, but he was so knowledgeable and sometimes, in reminiscing, he gave things away.’

  ‘And you are a good listener, Fiona, so he probably enjoyed your company. So, it is really Miss Pierce’s word against Mrs Maxwell’s.’

  ‘Mmm, I suppose it is. Hey! Wait a minute! Surely Mr Murray must have kept some sort of accounts for his business. I mean a ledger or something? If Miss Pierce says he bought the vase, there must be an entry to say how much he paid for it and the date?’

  ‘There speaks the accountant!’ Jordon smiled. ‘I doubt if many small businessmen keep much in the way of accounts, although the government are beginning to tighten up on them since the war. I suppose it would be worth enquiring, especially if this should turn nasty.’

  ‘Nasty?’

  ‘It’s surprising how far some people will go where money is concerned.’

  ‘Mrs Maxwell is not like that! Not at all like that!’

  ‘I was thinking more of Miss Pierce …’

  ‘Oh.’ Fiona’s indignation subsided. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose you mean Miss Pierce will claim Mr Murray bought the vase, so it is part of his estate for her sister, and herself, to enjoy? Which means we are back to examining his ledgers. I’d guess he was very methodical about such things. He knew exactly what items were worth and what it would cost for renovations and materials.’

  ‘Well, don’t get your hopes too high. He may have kept the figures in his head, or on the back of a cigarette packet.’

  ‘He didn’t smoke.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes,’ she sighed, ‘and I can see you think it’s a lost cause. Don’t humour me, Jordon. I’m not a child …’

  ‘Far from it! All right, all
right, but I suggest you find out all you can about the family, and without delay. Ask Conan Maxwell about any conversations with Mr Murray’s son which might give us a clue about them. Were they wealthy? Did they live beyond their means? Did they own their house?’

  ‘They did. It sounded quite a large house too.’

  ‘Well, you know the sort of things to ask. Now I’d better get on with some work to pay the rent,’ he said dryly.

  When he had gone, Fiona considered his suggestions. She had to face Conan sometime and it would be better if she chose the time and place to suit herself. She had always confronted trouble head-on, at least until her mother’s illness and her death. She didn’t think she would ever rid herself of the feelings of guilt that had caused her. Facing up to Conan was different and the sooner she made herself see him, the better she would feel, or so she hoped.

  Later that afternoon, Fiona turned her car in the direction of the garage which now had an imposing sign saying “Maxwell and Jones”.

  She saw Conan as soon as she pulled into the forecourt. A lorry was just driving away and, as far as she could see, there was no one else around. She breathed a sigh of relief and lifted her head high. She willed herself not to blush at the sight of Conan. Her mouth was set and her grey eyes cool. She had dealt with unpleasant encounters during her work in Glasgow, but this was different. If only her heart would stop beating so fast. There was nothing to be afraid of. She had to keep calm, control her emotions.

  At the sight of her car, Conan’s first reaction was surprise, but in the next instant his blue eyes sparkled. He wondered how much Miss Fiona Sinclair remembered of the night of the wedding and how far he would dare to go with teasing her.

  Fiona slid gracefully out of the car and smoothed down the skirt of her navy suit. She had taken particular care to present the image of the capable, aloof businesswoman. Clothes and grooming gave a woman confidence and she had learned that a long time ago. She willed Conan not to mention the night of the wedding. She lifted her chin, squared her slim shoulders and headed for him, carrying a leather folder under her arm. Her hair was a smooth curtain on each side of her oval face, expertly cut to curve into her slender neck. She held herself erect and walked gracefully towards Conan.